"Martha Wells - Wheel of the Infinite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

“That’s still not ‘thank you.’ ” Though it could well be the truth. If he had come up the Western Road
from the Sintane, he could have crossed the river at the fords at Takis. But why move along the bank
instead of going on to the Great Road? Well, the Great Road has regular patrols; the river doesn‘t,
not in the rainy season.
He didn’t take the bait, either. He said, “You’re a wizard?”
“No.”
Silence, while the damp breeze made the water in the baray lap against the stone banks and the
temple cattle lowed in the distance. Why did she suspect it was the silence of disbelief? Almost against
her will, she added, “I receive the Ancestors’ Will, when they have any, and translate it for others. In
return, They allow me to manipulate the power of the Infinite.” An enormous simplification of the process,
but she didn’t think he wanted an hours-long philosophy debate.
More silence. The disbelief was so thick it was practically dripping off the wagon. Finally, he said,
“Are all the Koshan priests wizards?”
Ancestors help me, Maskelle swore under her breath, then gave in. “To some extent. But none of the
others are like me.”
He didn’t make any response. He was standing with his arms folded, but she had seen how fast he
could move. Annoyed, she said, “If you don’t believe me, you can ask the priests at the temple.”
He jerked his head toward the camp. “Those priests?”
“What?” She sat up, startled, and the staff thumped loudly on the wagonbed.
He stepped back as Maskelle grabbed her staff and stood up. She could already hear the bells on the
priests’ sistrum. Another moment, then he turned and walked—strolled, Maskelle thought, a brow lifted
ironically—into the dark. She could hear his steps on the wet grass. Not magic then, and no power about
it. Just skill at moving quietly.
Voices from behind the wagon recalled her to the current problem. Swearing under her breath, she
dragged her wet robes off the bench and clambered down to the ground.
 There were three Koshan priests standing near the fire, their cobalt blue robes caught up to keep
them out of the mud, and a young acolyte with a sistrum behind them. Beyond the priests,
half-surrounding the wagons, was a group of temple guards mounted on the small, sturdy horses of the
lower plains. The guards wore dark silk overrobes sewn with chain and breastplates of tightly braided
plates of lacquered iron, their crested helmets fitted with masks to make them faceless and terrifying.
Old Mali was still crouching stubbornly by the cooking pot, but the others were hiding in the wagons,
peering anxiously out. Their eyes followed Maskelle as she crossed the campsite. Rastim was standing
before the lead priest in an attitude of abject fear. Damn overdramatic Ariaden, Maskelle thought.
Shaking her head in resignation, she approached the tableau.
The priest’s eyes flicked over her dismissively as she moved around the fire, then came back to her in
growing astonishment as he saw her staff. The light was catching the old traces of silver left in the carved
letters of the sacred text. The sparks jumped from word to word as the text wound up the length of the
fine smooth wood like a snake around a pappas tree. The letters were worn down from years of
handling, but they could still be read. Until they faded from sight, the staff would still have power. Not
unlike me, Maskelle thought ruefully.
The priest was young and fine-featured, but the shaven scalp under the hood of his robe was marked
with colored designs of the first rank. The men with him were older but not so high in honor. He stared
hard at her, looking for what was left of her tattoo, but her hair had grown over it, obscuring all but the
border of the design at her hairline. The staff told him that her rank was Voice, but not which Voice. He
wet his lips, and said, “You shame us, lady. You should shelter in the temple.”
She leaned on the staff, mud and all. She hadn’t ever really expected to arrive in secret. “Thank you
for the offer, my son, but I can’t.”
His eyes narrowed, alert for insult. He said, “You have a reason for refusing our shelter?”
“I’m forbidden the temples,” Maskelle said, watching his eyes.
He stared at her, frowning, and his gaze swept over her, seeing for the first time past the worn robes.